


A Minor Position (In The Heart of DI Lestrade)

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Booty Call, M/M, Revenge!Sex, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 16:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	A Minor Position (In The Heart of DI Lestrade)

Detective Inspector Lestrade is standing outside the large, glossy black front door of Mycroft Holmes’ house and he has no idea how he got there.

He knows why he’s there, of course; he’s not just taken a wrong turning. He has a grey Skoda parked just down the road, and it’d have to be a rather bizarre wrong turning for him to have walked down the imposing gravel drive of Number One – he can’t remember the street name – without realising his mistake. He’d punched the postcode into his satnav and let the solemn yet enthusiastic male voice (for some reason he just couldn’t abide the female one; it gave him a powerful urge to murder people) lead him to the Richmond-Upon-Thames countryside, where he’d been respectfully informed that he’d reached his destination, and that it was the impressive-looking… well, _mansion_ , with sprawling gardens surrounding it and a drive with enough gravel to fill the Albert Hall, it seems.

He just doesn’t know why his legs haven’t given way yet.

Lestrade wasn’t really sure what to expect regarding Mycroft’s digs. He’s heard some rather _colourful_ stories from Sherlock, although the man isn’t too fond of trading childhood tales and one can hardly blame him. Lestrade can’t seem to get his head around the fact that Sherlock and Mycroft were once two foot tall, running around after a ball in the garden, screaming their heads off. He imagines them both to have come out aged thirty, both resplendent in immaculately tailored suits and deducing the pasts of everyone around them. In fact, the very notion that Sherlock has an elder brother at all seems ludicrous. Everything about the man’s behaviour screams ‘only child’, and he just… can’t see it, no matter how many times Sherlock mutters curses to his sibling under his breath. It’s obvious that the man exists, but just _how_ exactly he does is a mystery to the Inspector.

Well, he better exist, otherwise Lestrade has just taken an hour’s detour for nothing.

The house is large, grand, but the sort of understated grandness that rich people try to achieve, as not to look ostentatious. There are no pillars or balconies or fancy French windows; the whole house resembles a typical British townhouse simply stretched and multiplied in size. The sheer extent of the thing is the only factor that really indicates the wealth that must be enclosed in it, as well as the vast expanse of the land surrounding it. Another, more subtle indicator, hidden to those less knowledgeable, is the fact that the mansion is inhabited by Mycroft Holmes, and Mycroft Holmes alone.

How lonely, Lestrade thinks. What the hell does he do, with all those rooms? Play hide and seek with himself?

He knocks on the door.

Immediately, he wants to run away. This is a feeling that the Inspector has never once experienced, not even in the throws of a high-profile ambush or high-speed chase along back streets. The inescapable urge to get the hell out of there, to escape, to dive back into safety. All elicited by the simple wrist flick it took to move the large, brass lion’s head doorknocker.

He’s scared because he knows why he’s here and he knows just how _wrong_ it is. Oh God, maybe he should just go and find a street corner or something because he’s no better, really, is he?

He shudders. There are sounds of movement from inside the house; the longing to run for cover escalates. He still doesn’t know how he managed to even get there in the first place… perhaps the idea had been exhilarating, thrilling before, and he’d been propelled forward by a mixture of anticipation and adrenaline. Now he’s just feeling vaguely nauseous and all he can think of are the numerous ways that he’s going to make a tit out of himself.

 _You twat_ , Lestrade thinks as the door begins to rattle and he takes a step back, wondering if he can reach the cover of the trees before it opens. It’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it?

He’s mid-try when Mycroft speaks.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

 _Shit_.

Lestrade stops, curses under his breath again, swallows once. Lets his arms fall to his sides and spins on his right heel until he’s facing the house and the door and _Mycroft_. The man is standing in the doorway, leaning gently on the left hand post, dressed in an all-matching _three-piece suit_ , for God’s sake. Lestrade mentally contrasts his open-collar shirt and multi-purpose coat to the fawn ensemble in front of him and feels horrifically underdressed. The waistcoat is undone and hanging loose, which he assumes is the Mycroft Holmes idea of ‘slobbing around’.

“…Yeah.” Lestrade replies, although his very presence there should be response enough. He forms the word without relinquishing the gritting of his teeth that he’s only just realised he’s doing.

“I can assure you that whatever it was, arresting me will prove entirely fruitless.”

His jaw relaxes out of shock, really, rather than because he’s feeling any less tense, “I’m… not here to arrest you.”

Although, this situation certainly is _arresting_.

“Oh, you’re not? Right. What’s Sherlock done now, then? Please tell me he hasn’t _killed_ anyone.” Mycroft folds his arms and crosses his left leg over, stubbing the toe of his leather dress shoe into the carpet. He looks appropriately intimidating, and Lestrade doesn’t quite know how to respond to the gesture, or what just came out of the other man’s mouth.

“Uh, no. I’m going to… just… pretend you didn’t just say that, because the implications…”

“This is all off the record, of course.” Mycroft waves a hand, “If it’s police business you may as well come in.”

“It’s not.”

 _Congrats, Greg, conspicuously done._

“Oh. Right.” For the first time in the conversation, Mycroft looks genuinely surprised. “In that case you better come in nevertheless, if only to explain yourself.”

The man in the doorway spins one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and walks back into his house. Lestrade, struck by the realisation that he’s actually supposed to follow him, does the absolute opposite, and it’s only after a loud but pragmatic cough from indoors that he’s jerked out of his stupor and trips inside, feeling about six years old.

The house is… wow. If the outside looked impressive, then the inside truly is something else. It’s like walking into a period drama – one of those austere, ITV ones, where the details aren’t quite right but you’re not sure if you mind. If it weren’t for the large security system built into the left hand wall of the entrance hall, with its flashing red lights illuminating in some sort of sequence that would become apparent after prolonged viewing, it would be possible to feel like a person transported back in time. The furniture seems genuine, not imitation, and there are exposed, dark wooden beams holding the ceilings up. As Lestrade walks forward, following the quick heels of the man in front of him, he passes through rooms so swiftly he can hardly take in their aged elegance. The wallpaper – repeated Victorian patterns in burgundy, gold and deep emerald – reminds him of Baker Street, but that seems obvious; the man must get his influences from somewhere. They tread along plush carpets, varnished floorboards, immaculate cold stone, until they eventually reach Mycroft’s intended destination and he encloses the doorknob in his firm grip. As he twists it Lestrade gazes down along the corridor, suddenly embarrassed by their close proximity. The room at the very end, with the door open… is that an umbrella storeroom?

Christ.

The door opens and reveals a larger, grander room that the Inspector was expecting. He’s been led to the back of the house; the large, ornate French windows with diamond detail – the focal point and main light source of the room – display a view of the grounds, or at least a part of them. There’s probably more, more that stretches out further than Lestrade’s diminishing sight will let him see. Hedges and rolling green lawns and trellis interweaved with ivy and flowers of the season but unbecoming of the intended botanic picture. There’s a restriction of what will grow in the colder months, Lestrade knows, although he doesn’t consider himself at all interested in nature. Sherlock is the one with the knowledge of complex botanical poisons and antidotes; Lestrade just follows and nods. And hates the fact he’s reduced to just that, but never says.

“Far too vast, I know, but I have a groundskeeper who takes care of it.” Mycroft’s voice sounds out from by the fireplace; he’s watching Lestrade in the reflection of the mirror taking up the wall space above it. It’s only then that Lestrade realises he’s wandered over to the window unconsciously, and turns back to his host. “Daddy always said they were big enough for a cheetah to roam free in, and never long for Africa. He always had a bizarre sense of humour.” Mycroft seems to wave his own trivial comment away with a swish of his fingers that doubles as a gesture for Lestrade to sit down. “Do take a seat. Unless you’re fine there by the window, in which case you can stand. I’ll sit down, though, if you don’t mind; I’ve been on my feet all day trying to get the place ready for the Amer…” He hums through his closed lips. “Perhaps it’s best if you aren’t privy to that.”

Lestrade isn’t sure what he’s most put off by: the information Mycroft almost just revealed, or the fact that a Holmes brother has been _cleaning_. Surely he’d have lackeys to do such menial tasks for him? After a quick deliberation about which subject will be more dangerous to breach, Lestrade settles on the one he feels most comfortable with.

“You don’t trust me?”

“Oh, no, that’s not it at all. But not even Paulie knows about this one.”

 _’Paulie’?_

“You mean… Commissioner Stephenson?”

“Yes.” Mycroft waves a dismissive hand again, seating himself down on the immaculately upholstered vintage sofa nearest to him, “Paulie.”

… _Lord._

“I give the ‘important’ ones nicknames.” He adds like it’s supposed to be an explanation, “Of which they are unaware.”

Lestrade feels kind of sick and shifts his weight onto his other foot, “I’m not sure I want to know.”

“Oh, you don’t.” Mycroft replies with a dirty sort of chuckle. Leaning to rest his elbow on the armrest, he extends his fingers towards the silver tea set perched proudly on the end table next to him. “Tea?”

“No… thanks.”

Mycroft blanches and pulls a face that looks worryingly like self-flagellation, “Of course. I forgot you’re more of a coffee man. Black, no sugar. Personally I can’t abide the stuff. I find coffee lovers to be noticeably bitter individuals. Don’t you, Inspector?”

“I suppose so.” Lestrade answers, meandering over to the sofa opposite. The elder Holmes brother seems to have picked up on his hesitance; he’s got a cracking frown on him. Once the detective is seated there’s a nod of approval, probably, from opposite, and the pouring of tea into a small china teacup rimmed with gold. It’s probably vintage Wedgewood, or something, Lestrade infers.

There’s a pause where tea is sipped and tension builds.

“Mycroft-” Lestrade ventures.

The man in question freezes with the china to his lips; it’s almost like he’s just spat the liquid back into it. He doesn’t speak, so Lestrade feels obliged to change tack and fill the silence in any way he can.

“Your house. It’s big.”

There’s another pause, this time for collection, before the droll statement is responded to.

“You know, Inspector, I will never understand why they pay you so little.”

“No, _no_ , I meant for you. Just for you, living here by yourself.”

Mycroft lowers his cup and saucer, and is that… resignation on his face? Or what?

“It’s the family home. I continue to reside here to stop the building falling into disrepute, not particularly by choice.”

“What about your Mum and Dad?”

“Both our parents are deceased.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Lestrade mutters, pupils defecting to the floor.

“Don’t be. The matter is wholly immaterial.”

Lestrade is half expecting another breathtakingly awkward silence but instead hears… laughter? Why the hell is Mycroft laughing?

“I can see phatic talk isn’t one of your many talents, Detective Inspector. But don’t worry, I don’t find it necessary. Sometimes silence is much more rewarding. And conducive to _worthwhile_ conversation.”

 _Thank God for that, for one moment I thought you were a heartless bastard._

“Right.” Is all Lestrade has in response. He decides to test out Mycroft’s theory and just keep his damn mouth shut in the hope of producing… _worthwhile conversation_. He’s not sure if that’s a command or an insult, but he’s not about to ask.

Surprisingly, the silence isn’t so bad this time. It lasts the time it takes for Mycroft to finish his tea, position the cup back on the silver tea tray, and finally fold his arms and cross his legs in an elaborate series of movements that probably look more complex than they really are. The end product is steepled fingers and his right leg pinning his left down onto the sofa cushion.

“I always knew we’d become acquainted someday; it does pain me to see the ’Yard being run by mere _five-year-olds_.” Mycroft eventually begins, “Exempting you, of course.”

“I certainly don’t look five.”

Mycroft folds his arms; his eyes flicker to the silver of Lestrade’s hair and he nods once, as if in polite agreement, “No, Detective Inspector, you don’t. And you certainly don’t act it. You have a good head on your shoulders, from what I’ve been told, which is why I am astounded as to why you chose to come here today.”

“It’s a social visit.”

Okay, so that couldn’t have sounded any more pathetic if he’d _whined_ it.

“But we’ve never met before. What possible reason must you have for calling on me like this? We’re hardly _chums_.”

“I-”

“You’re not a curious fellow; you don’t do the job for the thrill, like someone we both know.”

Lestrade’s right leg slides off his knee with a clunk onto the varnished floorboards, throwing his torso forward almost so he’s bent double. When he straightens up, thoroughly jolted, Mycroft’s eyes are taking a whistle-stop tour around the room.

“Oh, Inspector, don’t be so overt. Overtness is so _boring_.”

His back is absolutely poker straight, and Lestrade feels even more emasculated. Yeah, that sounds about right; an effeminate man in a three-piece suit who sips tea from a china cup and saucer is making him feel emasculated. Perfectly logical.

“At least your transparency has illuminated a couple of details.” Mycroft continues, “I don’t know you all that well, but I had thought you were above _booty calls_ , Lestrade.”

It’s probably a good thing Lestrade refused the tea, or it’d just have been sprayed all over the nice cream rug between them. Probably out of his nose.

“I didn’t expect you to know the term.” He answers, which is really a politer version of the _WHAT THE FUCK?_ he’s thinking. He coughs, lightly, and shifts his position on the sofa a little.

Mycroft merely leans back into the sofa, finally dismantling his upright poise as he smirks and uncrosses his legs, “You could call it a perk of owning half of London. You don’t get to pick and choose the areas necessary to be under your control.”

That’s far, _far_ too much for Lestrade to take in right now. He could just about deal with the word ‘booty’ coming out of Mycroft Holmes’ mouth most definitely not in the pirating sense of the world, but- no, actually, he can’t. That’s royally fucked as it is.

The worst part is that he’s absolutely and entirely correct. It’s just weird, that’s all. And they’re both _grown men_. Why the hell are they sitting there discussing _booty calls_? Except for the fact they’re both living through one, but never mind. That doesn’t make it any less discombobulating.

Mycroft, sensing the general perplexity of the expression of the man opposite, gazes out of the window in an affectation of being considerate. It’s just badly-concealed smugness, really, and the overall effect works better with feigned nonchalance.

“It seems I was on the money with my deduction. _Fantastic_.”

What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean.

“Mycroft, I-”

The Holmes brother turns back to him with a worryingly devious air, “You don’t need to explain yourself; your motives are perfectly clear.” When Lestrade spreads his hands in a ‘ _you’re going to say it anyway, so you may as well_ ’ sort of gesture, the corners of Mycroft’s mouth ascend again. “You find me attractive, but only vaguely, so this isn’t simply passion run wild. It’s more calculated than that that.”

“For God’s sake…” Lestrade decides that he doesn’t really like submitting to the inevitable after all. He’s got to at least have some sway in this, he’s not just some junior policeman meant to bow and curtsey and put the kettle on. He’s a goddamn Detective Inspector. “Don’t- psychoanalyse me. I get that enough from…”

Attempt to regain control of conversation: unsuccessful.

“But you make it far too easy. If this didn’t directly involve me I doubt I’d even be interested. But it does. And I’m sure my brother would object to you referring to him as a ‘psychoanalyst’.”

Attempt to keep Sherlock Holmes out of the conversation: unsuccessful.

Attempt to not think of him by name: complete disaster.

“So what can I deduce from… this coat, then?” Mycroft’s intonation jerks him out of his self-deprecating daze. He thinks a large amount of swearwords at once, and probably mutters a couple under his breath unintentionally. The self-satisfied man opposite merely chuckles quietly and continues, leaning forward: “It’s old – probably about four years, maybe five, although that’s discounting the fact that your lifestyle has most probably prematurely aged it…” His index and middle finger on his right hand press against his lips, “You’re certainly not poor; I can see by the suit. And on the salary of a Detective Inspector… I’d expect no less than Saville Row; well done. Although why you’d hide it with that monstrosity of a jacket I have no idea. That suggests a tendency to dress practically while the work attire indicates a desire to make a good impression. You’ll compromise on the suit, but not the coat; that shows tenacity, which I suppose is admirable. Or perhaps sentimentality, but you don’t seem like the type. You’re not ostentatious or frivolous with your money – hence the five-year-old coat – and yet you’ll spend a small fortune on a suit? Obviously you’re dressing to impress. Not your employer because you’re not looking for a promotion, so that seems to lead us to our only option. Which, I’m afraid, is so blindingly obvious even a _moron_ could spot it.”

Lestrade half wants to ask why exactly Mycroft felt like going round the houses when he’d already known all along, since the moment he’d opened the bloody door, probably, but remembers that he’s talking to a Holmes and of course they’d be elaborate, why wouldn’t they? Isn’t that their sole purpose in life: to make others feel hideously inferior in comparison to their exceeding wit and intelligence?

And, also, he’s just been read like an ABC picture book. That’s not particularly fun or confidence boosting. So his trap stays shut.

“You’re here because you’re desperate.” Mycroft suddenly veers off, and the punch in the gut doesn’t happen. It’s almost worse in a way: the anticipation, then the anticlimax. Lestrade leans forward and raises his hand in a chopping motion in an attempt to steer the subject back, but Mycroft continues on with barely a pause for breath, the bastard. His bottom lip curls in displeasure, “As am I. Desperation opens up avenues of thought to man that were never previously possible. Luckily your desperation merely adds to your charm.”

The hand is still hovering in mid-air, like it’s still got a vain hope that it won’t be completely ineffectual and Mycroft will just mention his name, for fuck’s sake, just get it over and done with so they can _move on_. Instead the elder Holmes brother sucks on his teeth, a mask of faux amusement on his face.

“No, that’s quite all right. I wasn’t expecting the return of the compliment anyway.” He purrs, smirking at the detective’s expression that is probably pure loathing encapsulated. It’s not really the best way to get someone into your pants, you know, the _death stare_ , but once again, Lestrade is dealing with a Holmes. Mycroft probably gets off on tormenting the people he’s about to sleep with; it’s like the Black Widow process, but backwards.

Lestrade lowers his head minutely in a nod that says: _Get on with it_. The smirk falls.

“You can’t stop thinking about him. His omnipresence in your mind drains you, makes you feel less of a man for your inability to curb your imagination. Things were okay until Doctor Watson arrived; now working with him is a torturous reminder of your inadequacy and the brutal reality that this little dream is just that: a dream that will never come to fruition.”

The hiss of breath through Lestrade’s row of pearly whites tells Mycroft all he needs to know.

“But of course that’s not the only thing fuelling this. You could have picked… well, not _anyone_ , but an ulterior person to ‘drown your sorrows in’, so to speak. But no… you chose me. You want to get back at him.”

It’s futile to protest, or dissent, or say anything at all. Why would he even try and regain his pride when it’s already been crushed into the rug under immaculately laced dress shoes? What’s the point in arguing with a man already ten steps ahead of your subconscious thought.

“A matter of which I am more than happy to aid you with. It’s the perfect retaliation, isn’t it? Sleeping with his brother. His _Arch Enemy_. Or so you think; _you_ think it’ll get under his skin and while you’re most definitely wrong you’ll do it anyway just for that tiny chance that it’ll irk him. Make him wish that it were him, that he were _me_. And that’s exactly why I’m willing to help you despite these preposterous odds. Although I do request you refrain from mentioning my name once the whole matter goes round the ’Yard; I’d prefer my name to remain untarnished by salacious gossip.”

When Mycroft’s speech comes to an end he leans back almost in triumph, linking his fingers across his stomach in a silent gesture that speaks a variety of utterances, all self-satisfying and smug. He’s brilliant; they both know this, there’s no escape. He’s inherently brilliant and always will be, and isn’t going to be shy of communicating the fact in vague but pointed comments and rising of eyebrows and smirks creeping onto lips. It’s arrogance without arrogance. And rather quite brilliant.

Lestrade is about to concede, rotate his hand anticlockwise and raise it in submission to the man’s obvious greatness and superiority, when the thought hits him like Thor’s hammer. His head almost jerks back in surprise at the sudden onslaught of semi-coherent thought.

“No.”

“No?” Mycroft’s fingers tighten their grip at the defiance.

“No.” Comes out again before Lestrade can stop it. There’s a pause, then the second part of the realisation. God, he’s almost coherent now. “No!”

“Detective Inspector, are we playing Things That Rhyme With ‘Go’, or have you only now just grasped the concept of negatives?” Mycroft’s voice carries from the sofa opposite, taking with it a new, changed timbre of _strain._

 _Sorry Crofty, can’t let you have the upper hand this time, unfortunately._

Mycroft may be brilliant; he’s not even going to deny that. But Lestrade paid attention in A Level Physics and he knows perfection can never be attained. It’s just impossible. No man, woman, object or creation can ever be perfect, and therefore never can Mycroft Holmes. There’s always that mortal flaw that lets us down, gives us away, reveals our true character.

 _Found yours._

“No.” Lestrade repeats again uselessly, still startled by the thought that _shit_ , he might be able to regain some of his pride here. Well, perhaps, if he expands his vocabulary a little to actually convey his blinding new point.

“No to not mentioning me by name, or no to-”

“Just… no. You can’t do that.”

“Can’t do wha-”

“Stop _interrupting me for one second_! _Please_!” The hand chops down onto his thigh; Mycroft folds his arms like a scolded child. Lestrade tries vainly to not think of Sherlock, and mostly succeeds. “You can’t insinuate that you’re doing this just as a _favour_. Because I don’t buy it. You said it yourself: the odds are ‘preposterous’. I know that Sherlock isn’t going to give a shit who I shag unless it’s John – not that I would, anyway – and I know this is stupid; it’s _stupid_ , and _senseless_ , and once again you said it yourself: I am desperate.” He raises the hand up to shoulder level, fingers still jammed together, “But _you said it yourself. So are you_.”

“Was that repetition really-”

“Shut it! God, you’re just like him. Admit that I’m fucking right, would you?”

Mycroft’s lips shift and fluctuate like he’s trying to form words, like he’s _trying_ to say it, but his body won’t let him. It’s obviously a ruse and Lestrade can’t even be bothered to deal with him right now. They are just the goddamn same, the pair of them. Two peas in their own little difficult, annoying, Holmesian pod. That’s probably why they hate each other.

“You’re desperate,” He continues, ignoring his own dismissed command, “So there’s got to be something… or some _one_ else that’s affecting you to the point that you’d…” The realisation is both flush with the heat of excitement and cold with the implications, “Wait, what did you do? Before? What was it you did?”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a bit more specific. We’ve been acquainted for…” Mycroft lifts his wrist to his face; the watch looks new, and expensive, “twenty minutes now.”

“No, before. When I was talking about Sherlock, and him not giving a crap about who I… and I almost didn’t notice it but when I said… you… _Oh_.”

Mycroft closes his eyes in resignation, or prayer, or in the way soldiers do in war films when they’re hiding in a building that’s about to be strafed.

“Oh.” He echoes.

“It’s… it is. It _is_. God, Mycroft, you said overtness was _boring_. On the contrary, I think it’s quite interesting. Seems I’m not the only one to flinch at a mere name.”

“Touché.” The elder Holmes coughs, once, but Lestrade suspects it’s more of a collecting cough than a tickle in the throat. “I hypothesised that John Watson would be the making of my brother. Unfortunately I was right.”

“And you’d rather… you _like_ him… God, this is messy.”

“‘Messy’ is a word for it, yes. But you know I’d never act on them. These… _feelings_.”

“Why not?”

“That’s a pertinent question, DI Lestrade. You truly are a man of the force.”

“No, but- why? I mean, Sherlock hates y-”

“I am aware of that. Fortunately for him the loathing does not go both ways. Contrary to the opinion that has been thrust upon you, I care for my brother. And, as his elder sibling, I have an unresisting compulsion to want to make him happy. I don’t usually succeed as I am sure you know. Sometimes my methods appear… complicated. One needs to look deeply to see the real motive; Sherlock, I feel, does not see the necessity to dedicate the time to do so. Therefore the wrong impression is gained, time and time again, and it pains me so… to see… so I think, for the one time that I actually can… I’d be a fool to jeopardise things simply for my own personal gain.”

Disbelieving eyes meet lamenting ones. Lestrade feels guilty, almost, now he knows the truth. In a way he preferred Mycroft the bastard, Mycroft the manipulator set out to make Sherlock’s life a misery just because the kid spilt paint on his Year Eight science project. Now he knows Mycroft the Caring Older Brother, the untruths he’s swallowed feel acidic, fermenting in his stomach. He feels the edge to the times Sherlock’s had his path crossed, blocked, barricaded; of course it was for his own safety, or mental wellbeing, or… it cuts, now. And that’s certainly not the feeling he wants whenever he looks at Mycroft Holmes. The eyes say it all: _It’s my fault. I don’t need the sympathy_.

That’s not to say he doesn’t want it. But there’s a back-story, and this is a booty call. They shouldn’t even be talking.

“You really are a saint.” Lestrade says, and somehow it’s the perfect response. The sarcasm floods back into Mycroft’s eyes like blood being pumped back into his veins.

“Not entirely. I still intend to exploit you for sex and catharsis.”

“That sounds fine by me.”

Lips quirk and part with a soft plosive; Mycroft almost laughs but stops himself before the sound escapes, of course. God forbid that he’d ever let himself go. Mycroft Holmes is sarky, witty, surprisingly… sensitive, but he’s not one for outward displays of emotion. Lestrade feels that he’s probably got as close to Mycroft’s squishy fraternal inner core as anyone’s ever gotten or ever will get; he may be overplaying his contribution slightly, but at least allow him the fantasy.

Because, of course, thinking you’ve outwitted a Holmes is pretty much always a fantasy in the end. No matter how much the pieces add up in your favour, there’s always something lurking just out of your eye line but perfectly in sight to a deductive mind. And even if there are no such details, fabricating one comes easier to them than any other. They’ll make it believable, too; it’ll fool even a Detective Inspector.

He’s gone off on a tangent again. What were they supposed to be doing?

“So,” Lestrade steers his thoughts and the conversation back to the task in hand. God, that sounds so cheap, “what do we do now?”

A somewhat dignified snort. “Don’t be so dense. We shall proceed with the intended course of action.”

 _And we shall pretend there were no blinding revelations in the previous conversation._

“What, we will?” Is the only response Lestrade can seem to come up with, and he mentally punches himself in the face for his trouble. God, he used to be so authoritative and commanding! Now he’s just a blathering idiot put in his place by a man he’d never even met an hour ago. Sixty minutes ago, Detective Inspector Lestrade was driving his own car (well, the car supplied by the Force, but his car nevertheless) to Richmond-upon-Thames (being directed by the sat nav, but technically he was the one doing the driving), fully unaware that by doing so he was transporting himself towards demoralisation. It had been an easy mistake to make: thinking that because of their shared interest in public safety that they’d be on the same page. But now it’s clear, it’s damn bloody clear; Lestrade belongs in an Oxford Reading Tree while Mycroft Holmes is in the First Folio.

“Lestrade-”

“Please, call me Greg.”

Oooft, Lestrade’s level of reading difficulty just went down a couple of notches.

“Hmmm. Well, if you insist on referring to me by my first name I suppose I may as well return the _favour_. I have a meeting in a short while so you can’t linger.”

“Wait, we’re actually going to do this?”

It’s truly amazing how Mycroft can belittle you with merely a twitch of an eyebrow. Lestrade needs lessons; the skill would come in very handy when dealing with Donovan.

“Of course. Don’t look so _scared_ ; you were the one who orchestrated this little… series of events, so try and act a little happier about your plan coming to fruition. Besides, I am enthusiastic about the idea. It’s been a while.” There’s a pause, and Lestrade doesn’t even want to _breathe_ in fear of offending. It’s not like he would laugh or anything; they’re in the same boat, so to speak, even if they’re not in the same piece of literature. “So, _Greg_ , shall we proceed?”

Lestrade’s eyes whiz around the room as he shuffles his feet, “Proceed? Yes, uh…”

“Upstairs, of course. Why, you think I’d let us remain down here? You are a guest – if a self-invited one – and I would be a despicable host if I forced us to… copulate on the floor like _animals_. I’m not a barbarian, you know.”

Lestrade nods his agreement, but inside he’s having trouble thinking of anything more arousing than Mycroft (or Sherlock) taking him on the chaise longue in the corner.

“And besides,” Mycroft adds, like it ends the matter, “we would get carpet burn.”

 _Ah, not quite so sexy._

With one last lingering look at the silk-upholstered chaise, Lestrade follows the elder Holmes brother out of the room. He’s not really surprised by their new trajectory; disappointed, perhaps, but not enough for him to voice it. No matter how much he’d enjoy the thrill, the eccentricity and spontaneity of just going at it in the reception room downstairs, he knows that’s not really Mycroft, and it’s not really him. He’s hardly what one would call ‘adventurous’ in the bedroom department, the same way he’s not what one would call ‘spectacular’. Lestrade isn’t much into the kinky stuff the way he expects Sherlock would enjoy riding crops, or scarves as gags; he doesn’t really see Mycroft going down that particular alley either, unless it were to involve umbrellas, or something…

Oh God, what is he even thinking. He really shouldn’t go there.

Lestrade follows the man back to the entrance hall with the flashing security system and half wonders if this is just an elaborate way of Mycroft kicking him out, but instead he finds himself ascending up the large wooden staircase on the eastern side of the room. He treads up the runner in the centre of the steps, crushing fleur-de-lis and what are possibly griffins, or lions, under his soles. The house feels like a maze; at the top of the staircase are more doors, and the corridor looks like it follows the contours of the house. They take the right fork and walk past more doors, and tapestries, and paintings probably worth more than they look to an untrained eye, until Mycroft stops at the door barricading the corridor at the end. It’s mahogany like all the others, and fairly nondescript, but by the fact they’ve stopped and the sudden intense seriousness on Mycroft’s face, Lestrade can deduce just whose bedroom this door leads to.

“We’re here.” Mycroft clarifies unnecessarily. It’s probably the only pointless thing he’s said since Lestrade’s arrival.

“I’m surprised you don’t get lost.” Lestrade adds another to his own tally of pointless utterances, “This house is like a warren. You’ll have to give me a tour next time.”

Mycroft’s look, once again, says everything Lestrade needs to know.

 _Don’t get ahead of yourself, Greg._

Although, Lestrade can bet that Mycroft probably still calls him DI Lestrade in his head. There are some people who reject change, and orders, and Mycroft Holmes is most probably one of them. Lestrade would be quite disappointed if he wasn’t, really. Letting the family down.

The elder sibling of said family nods once, ignoring Lestrade’s errant tongue, and pushes the door open with a sibilant swish.

The walls are surprisingly bare in contrast to the ‘let’s put every valuable artifact we own on display so everyone can see how rich we are’ approach the rest of the house seems to be utilising. In fact, the whole room is far more pared down than Lestrade had expected from a man who exudes such… pretentious glamour, almost. He’s a traditional English gentleman with all the trimmings (except maybe a monocle; he should invest in one) on the outside, but Lestrade is seeing that when you step behind the door of Mycroft Holmes’ privacy he’s more reserved than his confident demeanour suggests. Or perhaps he’s just had the room furnished by a decorator and he actually hates it because he is in fact the pompous dickhead he pretends to be. Lestrade is going to go with the first option.

It’s all very interesting: the floral wallpaper is the colour of the foam on expensive cappuccinos, bisected by an oak dado rail that extends around the room until it meets the large, quadruple bay windows on the western side; the glass in the panes is leaded, casting crosses onto the cream carpet and sparse furnishings; there’s a writing desk doubling as a dressing table next to the door that most probably leads on to a lavish en suite, and an antique sofa, piled high with books, immediately in front of them as they enter. But it’s the bed that draws Lestrade’s attention, not least because it’s placed directly in the centre of the room. It’s an incongruently grand thing – silk, crimson, embroidered sheets; four mahogany posts protruding up from the corners; enough pillows and cushions to smother an army – but that’s not the entire reason that Lestrade finds himself unable to withdraw his eyes from it. Despite its obvious bed-like appearance, both the room’s occupants know that the bed isn’t just a bed. It’s a physical manifestation of what they’re about to do, this little planned but impromptu escapade, the tension that’s suddenly crept up on them from nowhere. Lestrade feels like he’s observing the scene of a crime, and he reckons that perhaps that’s not the best feeling to be experiencing right before he’s about to have sex.

Although his mind is reminding him that this isn’t just going to be a run-of-the-mill shag. There’s far too much that’s already been said and still left unspoken.

Mycroft doesn’t seem to mind, though, and he closes the door behind them with a click. Lestrade wants to prompt him that it’s all right, he can leave the thing ajar because it’s not like they’re about to be disturbed, but senses that this is probably more of a metaphor than a gesture of practicality. It’s a quiet, polite way of telling him: _too late to back out now_. Not that he plans to; he’s now sort of… guiltily aroused. That’s a weird combination, but not wholly disagreeable.

They stand, Mycroft by the door, Lestrade by the bed, in silence. It’s a silence that, once again, Lestrade gets the unhelpful compulsion to fill by small talk.

“So do you ever get… lonely?”

“Detective Inspector, are we going to have sexual intercourse, or are we to sit and talk about our feelings?” Mycroft gestures to the sofa laden with literature, “We can do one of the two.”

Somehow the snapped riposte suits the both of them absolutely fine, because as their eyes meet and minds connect it’s suddenly obvious, and neither of them wants it to be voiced. Of course Mycroft is lonely. He’s isolated, trapped inside a mansion haunted by ghosts of his childhood and weighed down with expectation, duty, guilt. He’s a man so concerned with the wellbeing of others that he never stops to think about himself; he’s clever, so _bloody_ clever to mask it in pomposity and conceit because no one asks questions and no one pities him. Running the country is a marvellous distraction from the brother who detests him and the dead parents who possess him. He’s lonely enough to latch on to the first honest man he sees and fall so helplessly in love he’ll allow himself to be barbarised. He’s lonely enough to agree to degradation simply as a distraction.

This cannot ever be said out loud.

“I better… get undressed, then.”

“Good choice.” Mycroft intones, slipping his arms out of his jacket. Lestrade stands and watches him for a moment; the man has a remarkable method of stripping off. It’s half self-conscious and half clinical, like he’s preparing for an examination at the doctor’s. Lestrade wants to lean forward and touch him on the arm in an unexpected compulsion to _protect_ the Holmes brother. He knows what reception such a gesture would get, so refrains. The waistcoat falls and joins the suit jacket on the carpet; Mycroft’s head lifts as he surveys the man in front of him still fully clothed, coat and all.

“This isn’t a show.” The stoicism wavers on the final consonant. Lestrade can’t shake the feeling that he’s taking advantage and has to reinforce that he’s demeaning himself too. The tables will turn again and again as the pendulum of control swings between them, and that’s something Lestrade simply has to accept.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to… I’ll just…”

Mycroft’s eyes flash with an amusement that brings warmth back to Greg’s insides. It’s only momentary, as long, pale Holmesian fingers flicker against shirt buttons and the mask of solemnity returns, but it’s enough. Lestrade responds by pulling off his overcoat; the fingers pause as it falls to the floor. There’s a pointed look and a cough, a look that says ‘ _Don’t even think about leaving that there_ ’. The double standards shouldn’t put Lestrade at ease but they do, and he moves the garment to the sofa, adding his suit jacket to the pile.

They both undress in silence. Lestrade mirrors Mycroft’s movements one step behind until they’re both stood in just their boxers, feeling simultaneously exposed and curious.

“Please don’t be cruel; I’m on a diet.” Mycroft speaks into the silence.

Lestrade is quick to assuage him in the only way he can, “No, you look… fine.”

He’s not lying; perhaps there may be just a hint of a belly protruding over the waistband of the light blue undergarments, but the sight isn’t at all repulsive. Lestrade isn’t stirring just yet but feels he soon will be.

“Ugh, ‘fine’ is such a ghastly word. Pray, do not use it again in my presence.”

“So you expect this to happen again?”

Mycroft’s expression suddenly darkens with an intensity Lestrade can’t place between irritation and arousal, “Fucking or feelings, Greg. You have a choice.”

The curse word feels like a punch in the face. He’s never heard Mycroft swear, and has never expected him to. The word seems too coarse, too crude for a man with such an immaculate image to uphold; the vulgarity of it suits Sherlock, perhaps, but not his brother. Mycroft is abrupt in a totally different way.

He notices the colour drain from Lestrade’s face at the implications of the language and looks almost… guilty? An explanation is swift to follow and seems to suggest that conclusion: “Another one of the ‘perks’ of my occupation. We learn by exposure and imitation, and I seem to be just as susceptible.”

Mycroft doesn’t need to add the ‘sorry’ they both hear suffixing the utterance.

“Right,” He voices instead, drawing a well-needed line under the previous topic, “I suppose we ought to move to the bed.”

“Right. Yes. Bed.”

For once Lestrade’s worthless utterance isn’t picked up on; Mycroft’s full attention is now focused on pulling apart the perfection of his bedclothes. He knocks the cushions off with his arm with an unexpected lack of care and slides in between the sheets with the swish of cotton against silk. He’s sat up, back straight, when Lestrade takes the hint and mimics him. There’s silence again.

“We probably should get… yeah.” Suddenly all Lestrade’s confidence deserts him and he finds himself unable to even form the word ‘naked’, for Christ’s sake. He’s transported back to being fifteen years old, making a mistake with a girl whose name he can’t even remember anymore; they were both nervous as hell and fumbled around until the deed was done and he felt no different at all. He can recall that much, along with the solemn lecture he’d received when his parents found out – sex was a wonderful thing, Greg, but with someone you _love_. They were so disappointed; they told him a part of their son had died that day. It seemed so great a sacrifice for so little in return.

Why is he reminded of that now? Now, when he’s in bed with a Holmes turned away from him sliding his boxers down his trembling limbs, after twenty years of sacrificing little for a lot. This isn’t about love, he knew that when he slammed the car door shut this morning and he knows it now. It doesn’t change anything. It’s going to happen, no matter how dubious or immoral the reasons. No matter how much his parents would shudder if they knew what he has become.

Mycroft turns back; he’s nervous, and naked. Time for Greg to reciprocate.

They lie side by side, face to face, gazes diverted over the other’s shoulder, lips pressed together in a thin line. They’ve gotten this far; all it’ll take is one final push.

“Can I kiss you?” Lestrade asks, and together they topple over the precipice. Mycroft looks at him, his face unfairly contorted; he’s staring at him like he’s just been asked if he can be _spanked_ , or something.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“I don’t know. I suppose… before, my wife… she never would…”

That’s a whole new kettle of fish that Lestrade really isn’t going to go into right now, not for any sum of money or other form of persuasion. The fact he’s even brought it up is an improvement on the last five years. Well done, Greg! Acknowledgement is the first step to recovery.

“Ah, the wife that left you after you came out to her.” Mycroft murmurs, more to clarify to himself than to address the man lying across from him looking aghast. So it seems elaboration wasn’t even necessary after all. How the _hell_ …

“I did not ‘come out’ to her!”

“…Told her you’d been sleeping with men… that’s practically the same thing.”

Lestrade can’t believe this is actually happening.

“I’m not gay!” He protests, then immediately realises the ludicrousness of his statement. He may be telling the truth but surprisingly it doesn’t stand up well when said whilst lying naked in bed with another man whom he’s just asked permission to kiss. The indignation evaporates; the pair share a smile.

“You may as well be,“ Mycroft adds, grinning, “everyone else is.”

Then he nods, just once, and the smile is replaced by intent. Greg takes this as his cue to lean forward and, grasping him by the shoulder, press his lips against Mycroft’s. At first the man is nervous, unyielding, but then Lestrade’s grip tightens slightly on his shoulder and it’s as if that’s the catalyst; his lips almost melt into the contact and push back. It’s a frightening display of intimacy for a booty call.

Lips part and eyes open; when Mycroft’s lids raise he sees more than just the astoundingly close features of Gregory Lestrade.

“I know doing that deduction thing makes you feel comfortable, but do you reckon you could… not?”

“Only if you stop me, Detective Inspector.”

What follows is entirely unexpected from both parties. Lestrade rolls over and drapes himself over Mycroft and surprisingly the British Secret Service lets him; it seems that the elder Holmes is far more submissive in the bedroom than his public demeanour suggests. No matter how deep Lestrade feels he’s penetrated into the heart of Mycroft Holmes there’s still a part of him that expected deviance to predominate. But the superiority that they both could have easily acknowledged was there at the beginning has evaporated; the only trace is in the crescent indents Lestrade is displaying on his shoulders, his back, his neck, as Mycroft grips him with a strength that both pleases and arouses him. There is no more talking, for the two have a much better idea of what to do with their mouths now that kissing seems to be on the agenda. There’s no time for thinking, either; they just do. They kiss, they touch, they grasp, they groan, they judder and shake, they slip into bliss and make plans to never emerge. But they must, eventually, and it’s after convulsions and cries that their symphony ends.

Perhaps he fell asleep, or perhaps the elation he never thought he’d be able to recapture overcame him for a moment, knocked him sideways, but when Lestrade opens his eyes he finds his arms wound around nothing and his gaze falling on an empty mattress. Oh, God, please say that they didn’t fall asleep in each other’s arms. That would be _tragic_.

Lestrade shifts his position to catch Mycroft perched by the foot of the bed, leaning against the mahogany post as he slips on his socks. He’s almost fully dressed save for the suit jacket still splayed on the floor; Greg is still naked. He wonders how long he was out for and feels wholly embarrassed. It’s the middle of the bloody day; he didn’t think he was _that_ exhausted.

Mycroft turns his head at the movement. Greg’s not sure what he had been expecting but the expression that greets him is no mischievous smirk of satiation. It’s more… blank indifference.

Oh.

“I’ve got that meeting scheduled in an hour and I must prepare the dining room. I’m afraid you must leave.” Mycroft instructs, eyes skimming the policeman’s head. Lestrade is not going to read too far into social niceties. Hang on- since when did he want to linger anyway? Oh, probably since he snogged Mycroft Holmes amid silk sheets and realised that he didn’t much give a stuff about the man’s younger brother anymore.

“I am aware of the abruptness, but… I wasn’t expecting this.”

The phrase, no matter how blank the delivery, says more than Mycroft is probably aware of. Lestrade, nodding to conceal his disappointment, swings his legs out of bed and then crosses the floor in a sort of embarrassed half run usually saved for shower trips with forgotten towels. He’s fully aware of Mycroft’s hawk-like eyes following his movements, especially when he bends over to retrieve his garments from the sofa. Greg really has no idea what to say – the situation commands an ice-breaker but Mycroft isn’t talking and Lestrade is hardly a master of the phatic – so seats himself down next to the Holmes in silence and proceeds to dress himself as noiselessly as possible. Perhaps he just has too much faith in mankind, but Lestrade is quietly surprised to find everything so… _quiet_. It makes sense for both parties to be just a little bit mortified at the revelations now hanging between them like soiled washing, not to mention the actual soiled sheets they’re currently sitting on. They’ve both battled demons and common sense and their better judgement and restraint, but now the haze has lifted and they are no longer clouded by their lust for happiness and each other. The gasps and groans of not that long ago are just embarrassing now. Men who rein in their emotions make the most spectacular fuckery of it when they let them go.

Once the pair are entirely suited and booted, Mycroft rises from the bed and Lestrade follows him. It’s back through the maze with them, down corridors and doors that Lestrade can’t help but hope lead to nowhere. He’s feeling thoroughly pathetic by the time they reach the front door and Mycroft stands awkwardly by it, reluctant to appear impolite but impatient for the discomfiture to cease.

“So…” Lestrade begins and realises he has no idea how to finish it.

“So.” Mycroft echoes unhelpfully.

“This meeting of yours. Important?”

“Very.”

“Oh. Right.” Cough. “I best be… out of your hair, then.”

“Yes, you should go.”

The hefting front door is opened by a flick of the wrist and hinging of the elbow, the unwelcoming frosty air of outside hits Greg like a steel toe-cap in the face. He steps out into the real world but can’t stop himself from turning back for one last glimpse of Paradise. How horrific for all concerned.

“Uh… I suppose… thank you?”

That really is the most imbecilic thing he’s said this entire time, but somehow – perhaps just to humour him – Mycroft seems to understand. He nods, anyway, and makes to close the door. Lestrade knows his cue.

He takes three steps away from the house before a voice stops him.

“Detective Lestrade?”

“Yes,” Greg replies, turning apprehensively, anticipating the ‘you’ve left your keys’ or ‘your trousers are inside out’.

“Although I am aware of my charms, please do try not to.”

Lestrade almost laughs out of his confusion, “Try not to what?”

“Fall for me. It would be wholly inconvenient.”

The realisation that follows is the most beautiful of all. It’s not the fact that any hope of impeding that particular inconvenience set sail long ago. It’s not even the fact he can admit that to himself now. It’s the fact that Mycroft _knows_. They both know, and they’ll hide it, and they’ll keep it between themselves like the government secrets they’re so used to concealing. The act of secreting is the beauty that Lestrade once abhorred and never thought he’d learn to appreciate. They have something, now.

Lestrade doesn’t smile, or laugh, or jump. He nods. “But will I see you again?”

“Of course.” Mycroft replies without a trace of dishonesty.

Greg has far too much he wants to say but doesn’t say it. He doesn’t feel the need for an epilogue, for he knows their story is far from over. God, that’s cheesy. Who knew Mycroft Holmes could turn him into a sap, harping on about _beauty_ and all that? He’s glad they agreed on a vow of silence or he’d probably start reciting poetry, for God’s sake. And Detective Inspectors are well known for being allergic to iambic pentameter. He turns, unable to suppress the grin he could attribute to his own stupidity or the man he can hear pulling the door closed behind him. He continues to pace to his car, beaming like a man committed, until his pocket buzzes violently and pulls him back into reality. There’s not even the thought of it being Mycroft; somehow _’I miss you already! <3 xxx’_ texts don’t seem like his style. As Lestrade leans against his car the button depresses and so do his spirits when he sees the illuminated letters smirking back at him.

 _‘That desperate, are we?  
SH’_

Damn.

\--


End file.
